New Utrecht High School - Comet Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

Page 14 text:

owfegicior PIIiZC Winning P06111 By Ernie Grossman Twelve the w1nd still stirs the sleeping waves, At night, III And the oon god still bathes your now silent island in a labyrinth of moo11 beams. And there's still just a trace of your blood in the pu ple sky. if time can be measured r There was a time, a by the be t of a clock, when your white walls were a symbol of man's faith and your stood like now blackened guns silent sentinels silhouetted against the sky. Yours was not an easy death- But who can say if death is ever easy? Can the wail of a hell-bent bomb be a seda lend itself tive to .an easy death? to peaceful dying? e marching feet of the yellow men Does the mud and lice of a foxhole ' h h e proper tune for the funeral march? And did t beat out t You were young You were brave You were strong. From the salt flats of Utah, the black earth of Alabama, the sandy coasts of Maine You had 13011161

Page 13 text:

And it's sitting in the library on a Friday afternoon, an airplane droning overhead, and you look up from the magazine and the boy across the table is staring at you. You got excited while you were writing it, the next tluy you read it hefore the class and they were ull quiet after you'd jiniihetl and the teacher looked at you u little Jutlly and Jutltlenly you were Jorry for her. And then one day you realize that time is passing and you say, Gee, I'll be getting out soon, and you wonder how it all Went so quickly. Then the days slip by like sand in an hourglass and finally it's the last day after graduation and you stare up at the building and it all wells up in a tide and you stand and look up for a while and then you go home. They Jtuntl hefore the Jehool on u wtzrrn Septenzher morning waiting for the gates to open. They tulh iznzong thenzieloey anal the uuturnn utr rustlef softly part their cheehr. Over thenz hangs u heavy sonznolent tirneleifners. Pydyey By E. L. Atkinson My heart is not the flowing cup Which held beauty and poured out pretty words. My heart is now a sea of pain, Rising and swelling and dashing itself against rocks And crying out its sorrow. I found beauty in little things A silver thread of cobweb Shimmering in the early morning sunlightg The sudden hearty peal of laughter From the lips of a young boyg The great blue depths of skyg The warm rich earth itself. These are not beauty now, A cobweb is not silver--Itis a web Spun by a black, blood-sucking spider. That laughter has turned raucous. It has a loud and cruel note That tells at once Of hatred and of fear The sky is not the sky- It is a great and hollow drum In which the echoes from a million cannons Sound on forever Oh, yes the earth is warm, Warm and dark with the blood of men. Oh God! What can we give That earth may once more know what beauty is. Eleven

Page 15 text:

And thre was so much to live for, So very, very much, That you died for it. What more to say? What the heart feels when it beats 130 million strong cannot be caught on paper. But treaties can. Treaties are made for paper- Empty words on pretty paper- Treaties that can be broken by little men whose hearts have been torn out by the roots and in whose place there grows an Iron Cross. Oh Lord, if our path must be shown to us with a bloody rod If we must be awakened thus, So be it. For we are marching now, and you are leading us From the salt flats of Utah The black earth of Alabama The sandy coast of Maine. We are coming And we Are not afraid. Thirteefz